A Record of Encounters
by ckmono
Summary: The main cast of FFXII, from Larsa's point of view. Written in sets
1. Set I: Basch

_**Disclaimer: **FFXII belongs to Square-Enix and all other companies/persons associated with creating this wonderful piece of work._

_**Author's Notes: **These stories are written with the FFXII canon in mind **only**. In other words, Reverent Wings did not happen, or has not happened yet. Comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome._

* * *

**_A Record of Encounters_**

_Set I: Basch fon Ronsenberg_

**i.**

When he first met them he'd sized them up, as if he saw them all eye-to-eye rather than having to look up at them. One of them was Dalmascan, judging from his attire, and well enough beneath Larsa's own station to make even the most liberal-minded of the Archadians balk. There was a Viera, as stoic and fierce-looking and enigmatic as he'd heard and read about. The third was most likely an Archadian, judging from the set of his cheekbones -- he had a bit of that aristocratic air about him too, though it was dulled by mismatched rings, the supply packs about his waist, and a look too wild for the polite society.

And then, he who looked almost identical to Gabranth, he who caused Larsa to muster all his will to keep his face open and disarming. Larsa tried not to be too surprised when the Dalmascan -- Vaan -- blurted out the last traveler's name.

**ii.**

Larsa stared at the emaciated form walking steadily before him, and, for one moment, knew fear for Judge Magister Gabranth.

**iii.**

The Archadian -- Balthier, he remembered Vaan calling, but that was no Archadian name -- was highly suspicious of him. Larsa wondered if, with the amount of curiosity and pity with which he'd been staring furtively at Basch fon Ronsenburg, the knight would be suspicious too.

Drace did always say that his face gave him away easily.

**iv.**

"We have conclusive evidence to believe that the Princess Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca is under our 'personal escort'," Larsa heard Ghis proclaim with smug victory. He wished very dearly then, that he could see the lady and tell her that she was not entirely alone.

**v.**

He thought to appeal to Basch on the matter of an alliance between Lady Ashe and himself -- Basch was a man of the sword and shield, he'd know the significance of such a move, which might be lost on Lady Ashe in her headstrong will.

But Lady Ashe was, after all, the rightful representative of Dalmasca; plus, Larsa was not sure if he was ready to face Basch the Not-Kingslayer yet.

**vi.**

Larsa never told Gabranth what happened on his excursions away from his entourage and escorts. He suspected that Gabranth knew, maybe even wanted to know more. He was too afraid to ask.

**vii.**

On a cold night deep within the Paramina Rift, where he could see no iron hulks cruising overhead, Larsa found his chance and his courage (or audacity, he didn't know which) to speak. He stood up as quietly as he could, and approached the knight. When the man looked up from his place of watch beside Lady Ashe's bedroll, gaze sharp despite his non-threatening posture, Larsa almost quailed.

"Lord Larsa?" the knight's voice came, low and a bit richer than the slight rasp he'd first heard at Bhujerba.

"Sir Basch," he returned, and the man acknowledged the title with a nod. Larsa took that as permission, and came to sit down in front of the man. Straightening himself, he looked at Basch in the eye like his father, brother, Gabranth, and Drace had taught him to do -- to talk as a Prince of House Solidor.

"I wish to apologize," he started quietly, if only so as to not awaken Lady Ashe. A flicker of surprise passed Basch's face before Larsa found it fit to continue. "On behalf of the Empire, of which I am a part of, ruled by my family, I apologize. We have wronged you horribly in the past, and I cannot begin to comprehend what has been forced upon you."

Basch fon Ronsenburg stared at him through the light of the campfire, silent as the ice on the rocks behind them, and at one point in time, Larsa was sure, almost just as dead. He shuddered at the thought -- tried not to let it show -- and wondered at the will of this man, the will beyond that monstrous scar. Neither responded for a long moment, and Larsa started to avert his eyes. Perhaps he'd affronted Basch; after all, how could he apologize for something he 'could not begin to comprehend' (curse his tongue, that had lain open his folly so easily), but knew full well that it wouldn't be settled with a child's apologies?

"You honour me, Lord Larsa. I am merely a captain of the Royal Guard of Dalmasca." Basch said quietly, inclining his head again.

Larsa blinked. "Honour you? I hardly think my apology to be worthy. To apologize for something I could not understand, do you not think -- that I am pitying you?" He realized, as he said it, how true that might be, and how even more foolish he must have seemed.

Basch smiled lightly at him; once upon a time, Larsa thought, he might have looked more handsome, more heroic.

"If you pitied me, you would not have approached me in such a grave manner," He replied, shifting his heavy shield against his own body for comfort. "And even if you do pity me, I will not find it surprising either."

"I do not apologize out of pity," Larsa answered, feeling every bit the twelve-year-old that he was.

"I know." He looked up to see Basch smiling at him again. "And I thank you for your apology."

It occurred to Larsa, as he bid Basch goodnight and the man returned the greeting in kind, as he settled into his bedroll, that Basch fon Ronsenburg was a dead man. It occurred to him also, that no one would ever apologize to a dead man such as Basch fon Ronsenburg.

That made him feel less like a twelve-year-old.

**viii.**

Noah's body was carried back to Archades, where Larsa and Basch alone mourned him, while the Imperial City welcomed home the valiant Judge Magister Gabranth.

**ix.**

High up on the podium, addressing the memory of Vayne Carudas Solidor, Larsa could see the court of Archades, already thrown into varying degrees of doubt and suspicion. Here and there heads already bent in heated whispers, and perhaps someone watched him from the shadows, sharpening a top-quality dagger.

But a sweeping glance through the audience, instead of a lingering one, would suffice; as for the voices, the only thing he heard was the free breeze and the silence of Basch's armoured form. For that, he found some measure of comfort in his grief.

**x.**

Larsa passed Penelo's letter to Basch with a slightly mischievous expression, to which the knight frowned, confused. He nodded his permission as Basch dropped his gaze hesitantly to the paper, stark-white in the Archadian sun. A few minutes later, Basch joined him at the rectangular pond, and he stopped pretending to admire the water flowers.

"My Lord?" Basch asked, as if nothing had changed. Larsa almost laughed, but it would have been unseemly of an Emperor.

Settling for a chuckle, he peered up at Basch's face, now less sunken but still more haggard than Gabranth's. "You will accompany me to Lady Ashe's coronation?"

"Of course," Basch replied. "It is my duty."

"To whom, I wonder?" Larsa mused.

The armour creaked, as if the figure within seemed to draw back. "To you, of course."

"And if it is not?" Larsa asked, turning to him. "If I were to invite Basch fon Ronsenburg with me, and not Judge Magister Gabranth?"

"The two are too closely bound," came the quiet reply.

"Indeed." Larsa agreed after a moment. "Well, I shall invite both then, and we will see what comes of it." Here he smiled at Basch, and that tense stance the knight had sunk into loosened. "I believe that all will be well."

* * *

_Again, comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome. _


	2. Set II: Penelo

_**Disclaimer: **FFXII belongs to Square-Enix and all other companies/persons associated with creating this wonderful piece of work._

_**Author's Notes: **These stories are written with the FFXII canon in mind **only**. In other words, Reverent Wings did not happen, or has not happened yet. Comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome._

* * *

**_A Record of Encounters_**

_Set II: Penelo_

**i. **

Larsa comes dashing out of the Lhusu Mines to find Ghis terrorizing the wits out of a girl about the same age as Vaan. Now seems a good time to address the Judge Magister on the extent of Law and Order -- or, as he knows about persistent problems such as corruption and ambition, the limits beyond which abuse was _not_ tolerated.

**ii. **

Larsa does not realize what an "Empire" is until he gives his word of protection to Penelo, only to watch her accept his honour half-heartedly, fear and doubt veiling her expression.

**iii. **

Penelo has never been on an airship prior to her mishap. Larsa wonders, as Penelo tells him about how she and Vaan used to chase airship-shadows through Rabanastre, how poor Penelo must have been. Still is, actually, because Penelo is not an Archadian, and being in the presence of a Prince of House Solidor does not win her any riches.

**iv. **

Larsa keeps a hold of Penelo's hand as they board the Leviathan. Only then, does Ghis flicker his eyes down in submission.

**v. **

"Perhaps someday you can visit Archades," Larsa suggests as they boarded their escape. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Balthier wrinkle his nose in distaste.

"That would be nice," Penelo replies, her smile relaxing just slightly. It is enough for Larsa to smile back in a more uninhibited, child-like manner.

**vi. **

"The battleground will be Dalmasca?" Penelo asks again that arid night at Jahara. Behind her, Vaan stares at him too, worried and expectant.

"No. I will do all that is in my power to stop this," he replies, as firmly as he could.

"Well, Basch did all in his power at Nalbina too," Vaan says quietly after a moment. Penelo glares at him, but he only shrugged. "Just saying. I didn't mean anything about you, Larsa, but -- your brother, he kinda scares me."

Penelo glances at Larsa, apologetic and vaguely apprehensive.

"Is that really so?" Larsa returns.

"Yeah. Why do you ask?" Vaan replies, and Larsa suddenly feels very much like the distant icon of fear, hatred, and suspicion he supposed the House Solidor was to many of Dalmasca, Nabradia, and, even earlier, Landis.

"No reason at all," he doesn't know if he is allowed to feel sad about that; after all, he is required to understand and prioritize the people's feelings before his own. "It is -- a common opinion, and very understandable." He smiles genially at Vaan, and then Penelo, who looks at him with so much sympathy that he almost falters.

Almost.

**vii. **

"So I am an orphan now," Larsa murmurs as the gates of the temple swing open, and he catches Vaan and Penelo's backward glances.

"I am an orphan now," he repeats. Gran Kiltias Anastasis lays a hand on his shoulder, silent. Larsa looks down at that wrinkled hand, and realizes just how small his shoulders were.

**viii. **

Larsa steels himself as he enters the Bahamut, barely recovering in time to answer his brother's smile. He supposes this was what Penelo felt like on board the Leviathan.

"Set course for Rabanastre," he hears his brother command, and in his mind, he sees all the nameless crowds of Rabanastran children, clinging to their mothers while their fathers set off in the light Rabanastran infantry armour.

**ix. **

The last things Larsa hears before he falls are Penelo's short, alarmed shriek, Vaan's cursing, and the roar of the air as his brother rises again.

The People before you, his own voice seems to decree in his ears, and despite the pain, more acute than anything he has known in his life, he wills his convulsing body to move.

**x. **

In a show of gentlemanly playfulness, he kisses Penelo's hand before boarding the airship back to Archades. She has the good grace to blush, which makes Vaan a decidedly awkward presence beside her, scratching the back of his head and half-averting his eyes. Behind her, Lady Ashe shares a smile with someone over his back, presumably Sir Basch. And, had they been here, Fran would be looking bemusedly at him, in contrast to Balthier, who he is sure would be tsk-ing about how he'd done it all wrong, _that's no way to hold a lady's hand!_

The thoughts make Larsa grin, and Penelo returns it in kind.

"Come visit us someday again, okay?" She asks.

"It will be my greatest pleasure," Larsa replies, and, before he lost his resolve to the instinctual weight of propriety, steps forward and wraps his arms around Penelo's waist.

She makes a startled sound, before laughing, kneeling down, and wrapping her arms around him. Somewhere above him, he hears Vaan join them in their mirth, giving his head a light pat (he does not mind). Over Penelo's shoulder, Lady Ashe smiles, peacefully, as she had never smiled before in all their time together. On his shoulder, he feels Basch's hand, silent and warm, like the Dalmascan breeze.

"I will write to you, when I am back in Archadia," Larsa says solemnly, as the door of the airship closes.

Penelo nods. "You'll make a good Emperor, Larsa. People won't be scared of you," she answers, meeting his gaze.

"Thank you, Penelo," Larsa replies, and that is all he can do without betraying himself to tears.

* * *

_Again, comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome. _


	3. Set III: Ashe

_**Disclaimer: **FFXII belongs to Square-Enix and all other companies/persons associated with creating this wonderful piece of work._

_**Author's Notes: **These stories are written with the FFXII canon in mind **only**. In other words, Reverent Wings did not happen, or has not happened yet. Comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome._

* * *

**_A Record of Encounters_**

_Set III: Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca_

**i. **

He sneaks into the brigs the first night on board the Leviathan, to introduce himself, and perhaps to establish the first step in his agenda for peace. But when he greets her with a genial smile and a courteous bow, she scowls and glares so ominously at him that he is reduced to asking after her well-being (a rather foolish question, considering her predicament), and hurriedly excusing himself.

He thinks, as he falls asleep that night, humorously in a kind of rueful way, that Archadia will most definitely be losing the struggle with Dalmasca.

**ii.**

He goes back the next day, early morning before Judge Ghis and his lapdogs arrive. Penelo is with him; he figures that her presence will at least lend him some credibility for Lady Ashe's trust. They find her brooding in the cell, the same scowl she had favoured him with seeming to have never left her face. She looks surprised, like she did not expect him to come back, and stands up, tense.

"Do not be alarmed, Lady Ashe. I mean you no harm, and neither does her," He indicates to Penelo, who gasps lightly at the truth of what Larsa has told her.

"You? You are an Archadian," Lady Ashe mutters, spitting out the last word as if it were filthy sewage water. "You are _his_ brother, and you expect me to trust you?"

Before she can think of any explanation, Penelo speaks, addressing her country's fallen leader shyly and speaking earnestly on his behalf. This seems to calm Lady Ashe down slightly; enough at least, for Larsa to inform her of the new captives on board. He gets to Sir Basch's name, and her face falls again, harder than even when he had gone to see her last night.

"Say no more," she demands. " I will _not_ tolerate his traitorous presence." Her voice is so cold and full of anger that Larsa stops, shocked and saddened.

"Do you not trust him? Perhaps there is some --"

"I said, _say no more_." Lady Ashe interrupts, stalking viciously to the bars, and despite the metal poles that separate them, Larsa and Penelo step back. "Tell me, who are you to lecture me on matters of trust? You who have never felt the grief of betrayal, who walks safely in the shadows of your father and brother?" She hisses, and Larsa harbours no doubts that had she a sword, he would have been run through clean. "Tell me, do you have a kingdom of _people_, of _lives_, to protect?"

"No, I do not." Saying anything else now would be useless, Larsa realizes, hardly having any words at all to placate the savage anger that seems to drive Lady Ashe's very heart. He does not apologize to her as they leave; instead letting Penelo promise her they will come back for her.

**iii. **

He watches from one of the surveillance cameras, as Ashe stabs her sword hard through an opening in Ghis' armour, almost shattering his elbow, accompanied by a powerful cry. Unconsciously, Larsa grips his own elbow, staring at the screen with a mixture of awe, fear, and pity for Ghis.

**iv. **

There is shock on Lady Ashe's face when Larsa presents himself at Jahara. However, as she turns to face him fully, there is also a sense of respect in the way she stands, the way she smiles lightly, civilly at him.

Thank the gods. He might win this battle at least, regardless of the futility of war against Lady Ashe, which he fully acknowledges with an answering smile.

**v. **

"Surprisingly rude," Larsa comments blithely as he strides past Vaan, leaving the Rabanastran to ponder over his disastrous manners.

Catching up with Lady Ashe, he meets her eyes, and at the same moment, both bite their lips to contain a grin. Beside her, a corner of Sir Basch's mouth lifts in an exasperated smirk.

"Dalmascans are quite -- frank, I must say," He comments, feigning innocence.

"He is a sorry excuse for Dalmascan multicultural hospitality. Ignore him," Lady Ashe commands, her tone exaggeratingly lofty, amusement colouring the tone of her voice.

**vi. **

"Thank you for apologizing to Basch," Ashe says to him the next day, when she steadies his body by the shoulders as they cross an especially steep road in the Paramina Rift. "He may say he can bear any shame as long as he could protect others, but this shame was wrongful in the first place, and gnaws at his dignity. I am glad that there are those who do not take his words at face-level."

Larsa is slightly embarrassed that she had actually been awake during that conversation; he knows however, that he has said what Lady Ashe cannot, for Basch would never accept it from her.

"Loyalty is a richer treasure than an Empire -- I believe you'll agree with me on that, Lady Ashe?" Larsa asks her with a smile.

Lady Ashe nods gratefully, "Indeed -- such is the only treasure we may truly cherish."

"Perhaps not the only one," Larsa muses quietly, and Ashe glances at him, inquiring. He sees in her expression the shadows of the Shiva incident, sees in her eyes Captain Azelas Vossler's loyalty and offer of peace, neither of which came in a form she could find in herself to receive, and thus had deemed it betrayal.

"We are not alone, Lady Ashe. Let us cherish that instead, for it softens loyalty with something warmer -- after all, we are only mortals."

Something flickers across Lady Ashe's countenance -- something like an epiphany -- and she smiles in agreement at him, as if he were her brother.

**vii. **

"Come, Lord Larsa," Judge Bergan stretches out a gauntlet-clad hand to him over the body of Gran Kiltias Anastasis. "Your Lord Brother is deeply worried for your safety; we have been ordered to escort you back as soon as possible to Archades."

And suddenly, Bergan is not Bergan at all, but a blade sliding light-as-silk, with twisted affections, over the skin of his throat, drawn by his brother's shadowed hand. Looking beyond that, the entourage of troops becomes not just a simple formation of soldiers, but one hundred more blades, all caressing his life with precious, precious care, so that his heart pounded in terror and suspicion.

He understands Ashe's answer a little better now, as he murmurs his thanks, calmly as possible, and makes his way obediently to Gabranth and Zargabaath's side.

"One moment, my Lord," Bergan calls suddenly; Larsa hears the slide of a blade through a piece of cleaning fabric. "Do you, perchance, know of the whereabouts of the Lady Ashe and her rabble of criminals?"

Larsa wishes then, that he could be as strong, or even just half as savage, as Ashe in her grief-fuelled anger. Bergan is staring at him intently, he knows, but he does not dare, for all his pride and dignity as a Solidor, to turn and face the Judge Magister, etiquette be damned.

"I do not," He answers, but already, he knows that Bergan has won.

He hates losing.

**viii. **

"I have been -- requested, to serve as the guard of Dr. Cidolfus Bunansa on his trip to the Ridoranna Cataract and the Pharos. It is a matter of great importance. I have been told that 'tis for the good of the Empire and to the detriment of Her enemies."

As Gabranth speaks the words he is commanded to speak, Larsa remembers Ashe's grief for her father and brothers. He remembers Drace; even now, he is flipping through the book she has given him for his twelfth birthday.

"Come back," He says suddenly, dropping the book and going to stand in front of Gabranth. His face is open and rife with alarm and fear, his voice more demanding than he has ever been with the man. "You _must_ return to me safely."

That night, Larsa does not sleep. The next day, news of Gabranth's failure and Cid's death are brought by Zargabaath. At night, under the watch of guards bearing the crest of the Emperor of Archadia on their armours, Larsa cries in his room, bitter and insolent, struggling not to let the anger he feared in Lady Ashe consume him.

**ix. **

Ashe grips his shoulder tightly as he slides away from his brother to stand by her. He feels her eyes give him an once-over, and sees relief sweep across her expression. A reassuring smile appears briefly, and the hand on his shoulder squeezes once as Vayne draws his own sword.

Larsa forms a circle around his brother with everyone else. His brother catches his gaze, and he glares back, levelling his rapier, eyes dark with shattered trust.

**x. **

Deep in the night of Bahamut's fall, when the celebrations are finished, Larsa stands with Ashe in the Rabanastran cathedral, in front of the tombs of her ancestors and family and Lord Rasler of Nabradia (Vayne did not leave a body for a proper burial). Clad in ebony, they mourned together for the price of royalty, Larsa's smaller hand latched with Ashe's own trembling one.

* * *

_Again, comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome. _


	4. Set IV: Balthier

_**Disclaimer: **FFXII belongs to Square-Enix and all other companies/persons associated with creating this wonderful piece of work._

_**Author's Notes: **These stories are written with the FFXII canon in mind **only**. In other words, Reverent Wings did not happen, or has not happened yet. Comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome._

* * *

**_A Record of Encounters_**

_Set IV: Balthier_

**i.**

Larsa curses his own excitement inwardly as the man who had walked with a light swagger backed him up against the boulder-like protrusion, the suspicious frown on the other man's face far more confident than the surprised, ignorant façade he is trying to keep up. The youth named Vaan is already jogging to come to his aid. His opinion however, would count little against the battle-hardened 'Basch' (fon Ronsenburg, his mind whispered incredulously), or even the Viera approaching leisurely behind his interrogator, a wary, piercing stare in her bigger eyes.

"Balthier!" A feral snarl curls through the cavern and into his ears. At the sound of steel being drawn roughly into battle, Larsa's interrogator turns smoothly, frowning as if something bothered and disgusted him.

The Bangaa hunters close in, shaking their weapons menacingly at his companions, while the man named Balthier throws back a haughty insult without quailing at the razor monstrosity that the leader holds. Behind him, Larsa gathers his breath, clutching the manufacted nethicite in a hidden hand. He waits until the leading hunter glared at them all, and almost meets his own eyes.

As he darts out from his motley entourage and through the startled band of hunters (and thanks the gods for his luck in landing an eye with his nethecite) to pick up his pebble of a weapon, Larsa forces his pounding heart towards propelling his legs instead of unsettling his mind. For he is not sure which is worse--getting cut to bloody pieces by the hunters, or getting caught by the notorious sky pirate Balthier and then traded to the hunters to be cut into bloody pieces.

**ii.**

"You would let us go, knowing who we are?" Captain Azelas frowns down at him, body tense and stance wary. Out of the corner of his eye, Larsa catches Balthier reloading his pistol, the action almost absentmindedly done. At Captain Azelas' question, the sky pirate cocks his gun, turning to the conversation with a curious look in his eyes. As Larsa meets all their gazes, he sees it in Balthier's expression -- a patient sort of calculating look, ready to weigh his answer against some other cunning plan, no doubt involving the barrel of a gun to his temple, whether Penelo and Vaan like it or not.

**iii.**

It is after the adrenaline of the Lhusu Mines and the Leviathan settle down, that the small, seemingly insignificant detail catches the attention of Larsa's memory: 'Balthier' is no Archadian name, but the man's accent and mannerisms are not that of a lowly, callous sky pirate's either.

Larsa has never heard any account or gossip of Balthier the sky pirate's Archadian noble-accent, but Balthier is notorious and everyone assumes that everyone knows about Balthier, and that is true too.

"This--'Balthier'. He is priced rather heavily, not just on the lists of common head-hunters," he confides in Drace quietly after a tutoring session. "But he may be worth much more for something else, and I intend to find it out."

"He will hardly have the chance to come upon you unguarded again," Drace replies, cocking on eyebrow. "We will make sure of that--or has Your Highness taken a personal interest in the efforts to arrest him? Perhaps he has stolen something from you?"

Larsa smiles reassuringly at her worried expression, "Be not troubled, Judge Magister--I have not taken an interest in the sport of head-hunting, and nothing has been stolen from me. But he seems a smart man, and I want to know if I may trust that."

**iv.**

Balthier strikes many chords within the choruses of polite society in Archades.

To younger boys such as him -- but not exactly him, to be sure, for he is not so easily impressed despite his curiosity -- Balthier strikes something like admiration, tempered with caution. Like a daring one-man performance.

In the rest of the male populace, most gentlemen have outgrown his performance and prefer him to keep his thieving hide rotting in the dungeons where it belongs. Others have become even more enamoured of his performance, and gather away from the public eye to defend the man they see as a grand underdog of the Archadian commoner. (Larsa doubts this; he suspects that Balthier does not particularly care at all.)

Balthier's charm is equally effective on the young ladies Larsa converses with. The mention of the sky pirate's name excites a romantic, simultaneously fearful yet erotic sort of feeling, to which one of the girls swooned a little, much to the consternation of her mother.

He strikes the soldiers and the judges as their enemy, and that is all any of them could really tell Larsa. Except that Balthier is a damn good shot, almost as good as his Viera accomplice.

Vayne has more important things than Balthier to worry about, such as settling into his new role as Governor of Dalmasca. (Or so he tells Larsa patiently, but Larsa has heard Vayne muttering with Ghis when they believed that he would not notice.)

His Majesty the Emperor is too much occupied by the troubles of Archadia and House Solidor to enjoy any extensive gossiping. But it is good to sometimes, he tells Larsa. It is good to listen to the people, my son.

As for Dr. Cid -- well, he has not managed to pin the half-crazy scientist down with his subtle questioning yet, but for Larsa, that is answer enough.

**v.**

A cycle and a half of the moon passes, before word of Balthier reaches Larsa again, although through a messenger-spy that speaks only to him, rather than the loose mouths of Archadian court gossipers.

"Balthier has aligned himself with certain criminals who pose a threat to the rule of the Empire, and is currently travelling on foot across the Ogir-Yensa with them, to seek aid from the Rozarrians," the messenger reports quietly to Larsa in his private courtyard, under the watchful eyes of Gabranth. "Unlikely, of course, else they are quite desperate, even for criminals," the man snorts. "Thus however, the merchants who sell their wares at the pass that leads into the Sandsea have told me. A captain, they said, passed by earlier with a picture, asked for the same man, and told them such. He is apparently under orders to track the criminals. Azelas is his name."

"And who are these criminals?" Larsa asks, standing up from the table he sat at.

"He did not say, it seems."

"And does this Captain Azelas have any support with him?"

"No -- he goes alone."

"Alone," Larsa repeats thoughtfully. "Are the merchants sure of this?"

"They are -- he has purchased some provisions and supplies from them, enough for himself and some extra, before setting off."

"Well -- that is interesting," Larsa says, more as a question to himself rather than an answer to the messenger. After thanking the man for his services and relieving him of tracking Balthier, the young prince is left once again to the thoughtful tranquility of the courtyard.

After a few moments, Gabranth clears his throat quietly. "What are you thinking of, my lord?"

"Questions," Larsa answers musingly. "You must agree, that a man's fame is a good tracking device -- it follows him like footprints, and Balthier is an interesting enough man, such that he places himself in a position that helps me keep track of the Lady Ashe. I am merely wondering why." He turns with a smile to the impassive stare of the judge magister's helmet, "Gabranth -- watch Judge Ghis for me -- and perhaps Doctor Cid as well. I shall watch my brother, for we may be -- setting off, soon."

"To where, my lord?"

"To the Henne Magicite Mines -- and for Judge Ghis, to the Tomb of Raithwall."

**vi.**

"Your son is more trouble than he's worth -- a pity, really. He would have made a fine Judge." Larsa hears Judge Ghis commenting to Doctor Cid as the airship cruises towards the Mines. He does not sound quite as apologetic as protocol might demand.

The glance Doctor Cid returns Ghis is nearly twice as condescending. (The tilt of his chin and that skeptical frown, with one eyebrow raised, is almost eerily familiar in its confidence.)

"What are you going on about, hm?" he scoffs. "As if I would have such a lowly scoundrel for a son."

"No," Judge Ghis chuckles in acquiescence. "Of course not, my esteemed Doctor."

Larsa wonders if Balthier cares.

**vii.**

"So, what brings you here, away from the comforts of Archades?"

Larsa shifts, leaning back on his hands to find a more comfortable position as Balthier took a spot casually beside him by the fireside. Drawing out a pistol that Larsa had seen earlier amongst the wares of the Garif merchant, he begins examining the weapons in the flickering light.

"What reason?" Larsa repeats, a smooth smile on his face. "I might ask you the same question."

"Cheeky, are we?" Balthier drawls, loading shots into the pistol with practiced ease. "The Garif tell me you've been here for quite some time. Looking for fairytales about the Nethecite again?"

Larsa steels himself for a moment, before turning from the fire to look Balthier square in the eyes. "Indeed, I am. In fact, a few days prior to your party's arrival, I had still been accompanied by my brother, and Dr. Cidolfus Demen Bunansa of the Draklor Laboratory on their trip to the Henne Magicite Mines. The Doctor had some theories concerning the properties of Nethecite that he hoped to make sure of."

In the crackling stillness that follows, Balthier slips the pistol back into its holster, his face expressionless. Larsa waits.

"And what theories might those be, hm?" He asks quietly at length, turning away from Larsa to the fire, his voice vaguely curious.

"He did not say," Larsa answers just as quietly. "At least, not to me. He seems to prefer coming to conclusions by himself."

Something too quick to be described twists Balthier's brows into a momentary frown, before it leaves his face nonchalant once again.

"Hm," he says thoughtfully. "And by telling me all this relatively irrelevant information, you hope to achieve -- ?" he stands up, patting himself clean of dirt, and makes a questioning gesture.

"I -- I don't know," Larsa blurts out honestly after a moment, caught off guard, and suddenly, a little intimidated by the hard look in Balthier's eyes. "Perhaps -- an answer to the question you had asked of me."

Balthier shrugs with a smirk, before leaving Larsa to his own thoughts. "Treasure -- what else?"

**viii.**

"Drace?" Larsa murmurs, shocked.

Gabranth's armoured head nods once, slowly but firmly.

"But -- how?" He makes his way across the chamber, as fast as he could without appearing panicked, as Drace had taught him. (And now Drace is gone, and he still has so much to confide in her.)

"Gabranth -- you --" he takes up the judge magister's limp sword arm, and grips is hard. "My brother -- he has ordered you --"

"My lord -- Larsa," Gabranth says quietly, and Larsa almost bites his own tongue to still it. He watches as Gabranth slides the fearsome helmet up and off his head. The face underneath is grimmer than Larsa has ever seen in his life. His hand slides from the steel forearm to the gloved hand, only slightly warmer.

Gabranth grips back. " You must not stir trouble. The Senate's support for you -- no matter how treacherous that support may have been -- has been removed. Without them, I am but one sword against many, though I would give my life to defend you no less willingly. You must stay calm. Do not raise your brother's -- pardone me -- the Emperor's suspicions. Remember, you have two brothers in their graves. Your late father did not wish for you to be the third."

"And now there is also Drace, " Larsa adds, his eyes downcast and his brows knotted.

"And now there is Drace," Gabranth sighs, and Larsa looks up to see a heavy expression forcing the man's solemn eyes closed.

After a moment of silence, Gabranth lets go of Larsa, and turns away. "The Emperor has called a meeting with the Judge Magisters concerning Rozarria. I must leave," he says, fastening his helmet back on.

"Gabranth?" Larsa asks, making the man pause at the half-open doorway. "How -- how is my brother?"

He stares at the shadowed eyes of the helmet, until Gabranth finally answers, "Your brother is not the same brother you once knew. Please take care, my lord."

An image of Balthier's mocking countenance, furnished with what seems like bitterness, sharper than the gusts of the Paramina Rift, comes unbidden to his mind. As the door closes behind Gabranth with a quiet click, Larsa tries to scowl like Balthier did, to ward off the coming tears.

**ix.**

This is the decisive factor -- and Larsa knows it has to be something grand like this, because Balthier would never settle for anything less as his reward for all his troubles in this 'little story': Balthier complaining in his usual drawl about the incompetency of the Judges of Archadia; bragging about his own invincibility; babying his precious Strahl. Then, a few inevitable moments later, the sound of Bahamut's exploding ruins driving itself into the lands of the Westersand, leaving Rabanastre free and Zargabaath safe.

And Larsa decides that Balthier is no sky-pirate after all.

**x.**

"Oh, don't look so surprised -- you can hardly blame me, since the Marquis has got quite a well-guarded estate -- I prefer to go about my business with minimal fatalities, after all, and stealthy infiltration is part of my business. And take that ghastly helmet off, Captain, so I can greet you properly."

The man removes the leather cap shading his eyes, and Basch nearly drops his blade from the assailant in shock. A Viera follows him, stepping gracefully out of the wardrobe, lowering a slender, small bow set with a barbed arrow.

A delighted laugh bursts from Larsa with a relieved exhale as Basch's grip on his shoulder loosens. "Balthier! Lady Fran!"

"At your service, Your Imperial Highness," Balthier bows with a smooth flourish. Beside him, Lady Fran inclines her head silently with a small smile. "And yours, Captain," he added, as Basch lays his helmet on a table nearby.

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," Basch grips Balthier's shoulder in greeting, his voice a mix of sarcasm, sincerity, and relief.

Balthier shrugs, "Well, you know what they say about the Leading Man -- he always keeps his word."

"They say many things about the Leading Man," Larsa comments quietly, looking up at Balthier. "I say he is no scum of the skies at all."

A look of genuine surprise raises Balthier's brows. Larsa waits, as Balthier shoots Basch a questioning glance (which the judge magister returns with a small smile that promises no help at all), and then turns back to him.

"Hm," Balthier snorts. "Indeed? Well, that's quite the risky conclusion."

"You have grown much over this year, Emperor of Archadia," Fran says before Larsa can answer. "He is speechless," she adds, setting teasing eyes on Balthier, "you have impressed him."

Fran, please, is all Balthier says, in a tone that sounded as if he expected Fran to apologize. She smiles at him, and does not. Larsa grins as he grips Balthier's hand and meets his acknowledging smirk; victory is his, but just barely, and that is just as he has expected.

* * *

_Again, comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome. _


	5. Set V: Fran

_**Disclaimer: **FFXII belongs to Square-Enix and all other companies/persons associated with creating this wonderful piece of work._

_**Author's Notes: **These stories are written with the FFXII canon in mind **only**. In other words, Reverent Wings did not happen, or has not happened yet. Comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome._

* * *

**_A Record of Encounters_**

_Set V: Fran_

_**i.**_

There are no Viera in the courts of Archades, dspite their famed beauty and grace. Glancing at the Viera in his current company, Larsa coud see why. It has nothing to do with unladylike clothing or inhuman ears or deadly archery; she holds her head high and walks with a purposeful stride, the confident sense of power in her stance taking her far beyond anything the court as to offer.

_**ii.**_

Vaan buys Larsa's alias with a friendly smile. The well-spoken man and 'Basch' take it with their hands poised on the handle of a pistol and the hilt of a sword. Fran does not speak, does not keep an arrow ready, but Larsa knows from one impassive look that she will not allow him even one longbow's length from herself or any of her companions.

_**iii.**_

Lhusu had not been the best place to hold casual conversation; the Leviathan had been an even greater emergency. It is not until the quiet evening in Jahara that she relaxes enough to speak to him -- and not until then does he have the opportunity to speak to her without Balthier watching nearby. (Not that Balthier has been watching him; the man had simply been next to her all the time, looking like something more natural than breathing.)

I wish you a good night's rest, Lady Fran, he says with his diplomat's smile. Lady Ashe tells me that you have all traveled here on foot -- it must have been taxing.

Taxing? She repeats vaguely, blinking at him.

The word sounds almost foreign on the slight, natural purse of her lips -- the sign of another mother tongue. The Hume-language has, since Raithwall's time, become the common medium of communication throughout Ivalice amongst all races; the Dynast-King himself however, was no advocate of the aggressive assimilation of these other races into his rule. There were several possible reasons for this freedom, as well as what exactly it signified, and debate was vigorous in the scholarly circles of history, literature, ad law regarding these issues. This is not his forte however, and so Larsa had settled for the simple reason that these other races -- lesser races, habit whispers to him, but he'd been trying to get rid of that habit ever since the Lhusu mines, where he had most definitely _not_ been any member of a superior race -- had simply settled into Raithwall's power in complicity. And since they had never caused any noteworthy trouble, Raithwall in return had left them to their own devices, thus the seeming "exclusion". (What is the language of the Viera, he wonders.)

Larsa clears his throat. Yes -- tiring, he says.

Fran stares at him for several moments, unmoving as an old, gnarled branch of Jaharan wood. Larsa quavers inwardly a little, like a sap. He _is_ one, he supposes -- he has heard that the Viera live as long as the branches of twisting green that make up the Golmore Jungle.

No -- I have not been taxed since the day I left the Wood, she says. I have traveled much, since then.

Larsa quavers a little more. Do you -- do you not wish to stop at times then? He asks.

To stop? She repeats again, as if she is unsure, though he cannot tell from her vague tone. Perhaps she is unnerved by him as he is by her. But Ivalice moves, and I am part of Ivalice.

You are wise, Lady Fran, he replies after a moment, humbled by the thought of their sheer difference.

I have only traveled more, Fran says, before Balthier slips back to her side again.

_**iv.**_

In the humid, rich mud-smell of Golmore air, passing by enormous, rotting stumps crawling with blankets of saps and festering with vague shadows of more creatures growing anew, Larsa learns of Fran's inhumanity. In the airy, leaf-smell of Eruyt air, crossing solid bridges polished with what he could only believe is an unknown sap from an unknown tree, watching the graceful, silent order of the Viera, Larsa learns of Fran's humanity.

But it is not an 'order', as you would call it, Fran tells him as they prepare to make for the Henne Magicite Mines.

But you have a law -- the Jungle speaks the Green Word, and the Viera listen, and at on this word, Larsa says.

It is different, Fran persists. It is more complex than that. She turns away, frowning and silent. Around them, Bathier is having a lively conversation with Vaan and Penelo about the varied features of the _Strahl_; Basch and Ashe are speaking in lowered tone, wary of the incomprehensible rustling that seems to go on forever around them. It is broad daylight, but to Larsa there appeared a stagnant darkness all around the roots of the Jungle, like the bottom of a still pool, or Old Archades, or even the Sochen Cave Palace. Or further back still -- the Stillshrie of Miriam. Raithwall's Tomb. But these are not darkness to him, as far removed as he is from them. Or at least, he knows of them, and in this way, they are not shadowed. What of this great old wood then, frozen as the Pharos but moving vaguely about like Giruvegan, at the edge of Ivalice?

The Green Word is an -- instinct -- not, beyond instinct -- the deep-instinct -- the First, Fran answers slowly, looking frustrated. The Humes call it a 'word', but we do not. The First Instinct is not a Word. She pauses for a moment, before continuing with a small shake of her head. It is -- like a voice. Like the voice inside you that tells you to eat, or dink, or run, or hide, or nurture another, or kill another, or that this moment is when you will die.

I -- don't understand, Larsa says quietly. What is beyond instinct?

Fran hums thoughtfully. It is like -- the heart, she replies with a confident little smile.

For a moment, Larsa blinks at her, startled and surprisingly, feeling a little incredulous. The heart? He repeats. Do you mean feelings?

And now Fran turns, equally puzzled. Of course not, she replies, as if this could not be more clear. The heart does not feel. The heart beats.

_**v.**_

He has more tact than Vaan, of course, but he has a healthy amount of curiosity too, as do all members of the Archadia court. In the Paramina Rift, after seeing Balthier fuss over a burn across one forearm that Fran had recently received from the Giant Wyrm, he couldn't resist posing a "rude question" of his own. There is, he admits to himself, a romantic air -- the stuff of legends ad tales, and stuff that gets turned into plays -- about the two of them. The way they always walk together; the way they pick enemies off the field in seemingly effortless tandem; the way they banter; the way they sleep, Fran sitting and hugging whatever weapon she possessed at the moment to herself under her blanket, and Balthier on the ground nearby, a small dagger hidden somewhere in the blanket he shifts around in. As for Larsa himself, well -- love is hard to come by where he has spent his days, and any possibility of the oft-praised emotion, whether for himself or for others, is a welcome relief.

So he asks her, privately and carefully; if anything, Fran relishes her privacy, maybe as all Viera do, maybe as all "royalty" do (sister of the Elder, after all), or maybe as all sky pirates do. He admires their seamless teamwork, comments on how the rest of the team is moving towards a similar level, wonders about how long it had taken for the two of them to reach that level, asks about some of their earlier exploits, and finally asks, if he may know, have they shard more than all that?

Her first response is to smile indulgently at him. You may ask me directly, if that is the only thing you want to know, she says, and his face colours.

I do not mean to intrude, he murmurs, stammers a little. Drace would have been embarrassed for him.

Fran has, thankfully, a great many times more poise than he has at this moment, and continues as if nothing is happening to Larsa's face. We share more -- perhaps, she answers, and favours him with a small, daring smile. You should take this question to Balthier -- _he_ knows what the Humes call 'love' better than I do -- that's what the answer to your question should be, should it not? A mutual agreement.

A typical answer of the Viera, or of royalty, or of sky pirates. Of one of them, or all three, closing in for the kill.

Well -- I mean, no. No, thank you. Yours is an answer just as good, I am sure, he answers, backing aay to his own sleeping roll. Good night, Lady Fran.

And to you, Your Highness, Fran finishes smoothly, with a small, graceful dip of her head, entirely unperturbed and victorious.

_**vi.**_

Before they set off for the Stillshrine, and he to stay and prepare for a return to Archades, Fran finds Larsa in his room, takes both of his hands, and traces a glyph in each, the long claw-nail of her index finger rending the air with a thin, glowing stream of bright blue light. This is a chance, she tells him quietly in the light of a single lamp in his room, and blows softly on the symbol; it fades, and settles into the skin of his palm like dust.

Is it a spell? He asks, his voice hushed by the sight of the glyph.

Of a sort. It is good for one use -- I am sorry that I cannot do more, she replies matter-of-factly, and enigmatically, like the glyph itself, which had taken her breath and breathed it further, as if it had made a voice of her air. It is a protection, she clarifies. You are returning to Archades, and it has changed. You will need sharper ears and sharper eyes.

Do you think, Lady Fran -- that I will need a quicker sword-arm and faster legs as well? He asks hesitantly, suddenly afraid of her instinctive accuracy -- afraid of what it whispers or screams, afraid if it says nothing at all, afraid that he could not hear it for himself.

Fran looks down and shakes her head slowly, as if to clear herself. I do not know -- I have never been to Archades. She looks up again, and smiles reassuringly at him. You have travelled further than me, there -- you know that place.

But you said that it has changed. It _has_ changed, Larsa mumbles, frowning at the lamp.

So have you, Your Highness, Fran replies, tilting her head. Or can you not trust the steps of your own feet?

I'll -- try, Larsa answers after staring down at his boots for a few uncertain moments. As far as these feet will carry me, I shall try.

_**vii.**_

Archades is a jungle, Larsa thinks one night, looking absentmindedly at the hand Fran had traced the glyph into, turning it over and back again and staring at the skin, thinking that maybe it had shifted somehow to reveal exactly where the magicks had settled in. Archades is a jungle. A viper has stung his quiet father to death right on the throne, sharp and quick like daggers and poisons. His brother had become like a Great Malboro, swallowing Drace whole with one snap of its maw, pointing sword and all. And Gabranth, statelier than ever, like the coffins of patterned stone in which his quiet father would now be consigned to silence. Gabranth, who took off the helmet and gauntlets of his magisterial armour, and held Larsa's bare hands in a tight but unsure grip as he told the Prince about the recent purging. Gabranth, who, even now, looks paralyzed by the poisoned words of a talking Malboro. Gabranth, who walks beside him through this jungle of stone and steel. But what's a jungle doing here, Larsa wonders, confused and frustrated and wary. What's a jungle doing here? He wants to go back to Archades. Go _back_, do you hear me, Brother?

(Drace, Larsa hears Gabranth whisper under his breath when they are alone and the Judge is looking at something or another, and almost throws a fit, before restraining himself to clenched fists, after the manner of his brother. It would not do, after all, to make a sound in a jungle -- less sound than he may have once thought safe to make, in any case. And it is not safe to grieve for Drace.)

_**viii.**_

So he is quiet too, when Cid struts in and starts rambling away about the Dynast-Princess paying him an honoured visit and "wresting History back into the hands of Man" and Giruvegan and th Pharos of Ridoranna, all in a jumbled mess like a one-sided conversation. (He wishes that he could have conducted them around Archades. It is a jungle, but it is his home, like Golmore was Fran's home. And Giruvegan!) But if his brother is a Malboro, then he is a Malboro too. And he remembers, one night on the Ozmone Plains, on their way to the Henne Magicite Mines Fran had told him that as they grew, the siblings of a Malboro litter cease to recognize each other as sources of group support and protection. It is a way of ensuring survival, she had explained. If all Malboros remained in their litters and cooperated as such, there would not be enough food to share equally between anyone. A Malboro is greedy. It will stop once it has eaten its fill, as do all creatures of the natural order -- but it is greedy. (And what is his brother's fill? What is his own fill?)

_**ix.**_

It is possible, Larsa thinks in retrospect, that I was not aiding Lady Ashe to overthrow the rule of my brother and his Empire, though they arrived at a timely moment. On the Bahamut, my brother advised me to find the strength, and so I did. I am bound to rule -- I will have my power, and I will suffer no one to have it but me.

(The Malboros are not -- without heart, as the Hume saying goes, Fran had said. But as any litter grows, each in the litter must stay away from the territories of the others. There is not enough food to share, and all will perish if all starve a little more, day by day.

And if they must cross each other's paths? Larsa asked, a little saddened.

Then they will fight -- fiercer than the best Wood-Warders of Eruyt, she answered with a small shake o her hed. It is not a good sight, even by the eyes of the battle-hardend warriors. A bad omen, to see two Maboros of the same litter snapping at one another.)

_**x.**_

It is not until several months after the fall of Bahamut and his return to Archades with Basch, that Larsa discovers the effect of Fran's spell. Pacifying Archades in the aftermath of all the recent losses has taken efforts greaterthan Larsa or even Basch expected, and they had both been exhausted. And then a messenger had come to his private courtyard, bearing an urgent missive from the recently reinstated Senate.

He had risen, reached out, and then touched the scroll -- it dropped from the messenger's hands -- My Lord! He heard Basch yell -- the scroll sparked as it hit the ground -- and his heart jumped -- really _jumped_, _this is where you will die_, it whispered, and he fell tumbling back onto the ground, scrambling away from the scroll as the crackling magicks within dissipated -- golden electricity, like the ones that burned through him on the Bahamut -- the sound of Basch's great-sword being drawn, and then he looked up and there was the messenger, eyes wide and mouth open like a Malboro and a fang-like dagger of blood-red metal coming for his heart -- Basch was not going to make it in time, _he_ was not going to make it, and he kept moving back and held his hand up and _this is where you will die_ --

And then there had been a great rustling in the space between them all, like ten thousand arrows being fired at the same time, like the air itself had come alive. A circle of it seized up in a glowing, rippling pattern in front of him; it caught the point of the dagger and flung it violently up and out of the man's hand, straight across into the rectangular pond behind. The force carried the man's arm with it, flinging him down a few paces back like a Treant had whipped one of its heavy, wooden fists at him. (And Larsa knew how that hurt, judging by the tortured grimace Vaan had worn while holding his midriff, almost biting his tongue off trying not to scream, lest they attract _more_ Malboros.

And then Basch was there, breathing hard, the tip of his blade steady above the assailant's throat. Larsa had gotten up too, with as much dignity as he could muster, staring at the attacker and his guardian past the barrier, the pattern of which he vaguely remembered from Golmore.

This is a chance, the memory of Fran says, calm and sure. It is good for one use.

That was magicks from Golmore, Basch says, a fortnight later when investigations had ended.

Larsa nods. Lady Fran casted it -- she told me that it was a chance -- and that it was good for one use.

A life, Basch says after a thoughtful moment. Good for only one use indeed. She is wise, to have foreseen this.

-- No, not wise, Larsa murmurs. It has always been in her -- something she assumed would happen without a thought. She spoke to me once, about the Green Word of the Wood -- that it is like an instinct.

An instinct for life, perhaps. A small wonder, that the Golmore and its inhabitants survive so well, Basch comments.

Larsa nods in agreement. It is time I pick up on it, he says. Archades is another kind of a Golmore, after all -- and I am its Emperor.

* * *

_Again, comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome. _


	6. Set VI: Vaan

_**Disclaimer: **FFXII belongs to Square-Enix and all other companies/persons associated with creating this wonderful piece of work._

_**Author's Notes: **These stories are written with the FFXII canon in mind **only**. In other words, Reverent Wings did not happen, or has not happened yet. Comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome._

* * *

**_A Record of Encounters_**

_Set VI: Vaan_

_**i.  
**_  
Larsa does not know what to think of himself in Vaan's company. Vaan is not a boy, but certainly not a man either. Vayn is a man, and so is Larsa's own father; but not Vaan, though he looks every bit like one. He fights like one too, but with a stealth that Larsa has been warned against by Drace -- the men of Solidor do not sneak like the pickpockets of Old Archades. And when the battle ends and the bones of miners past topple away, Vaan is left panting and grinning, a gash on one arm and a sack of precious stones in the other hand.

"He's not using them or needing them, so why keey them?" Vaan answers blithely, meeting Larsa's inquiry with an uncomfortable look on his face.

"I doubt you can make certain of that," Larsa answers with a small smile, waving a hand at the bones.

Vaan snorts, and pockets the stones. "I can guess well enough, trust me," He answers like he's missed Larsa's joke entirely. Then he turns away just as Larsa is preparing to continue the banter. Larsa stares after Vaan as they venture deeper into the Mines, and bites the insides of his cheeks to substitute frowning.

(Archades does not steal from the dead, Gabranth says to him during a funeral of Dalmascan soldiers. We will not take from Dalmasca. But we will take care of Her -- She is in good hands.

Yes, I believe so, Larsa agrees confidently. He bows his head as the ceremony begins, and peeks occasionally at the crowd of Dalmascan mourners. He wants to go and catch their reaching fingers, still their wringing hands, straighten their crumpled shoulders, and tell them what Gabranth has told him.)

_**ii.  
**_  
"So, Lamont -- do you live around here?" Vaan asks, in an effort to calm himself down and slow time when they are taking a quick break in one of the airier areas of the Mine.

"Ah -- yes, I do. In a sense," Larsa answers, caught slightly off guard in the midst of dribbling drops of a small bottle of potion onto a wound. It is not entirely a lie; he has frequented Bhujerba enough times in the past two years to perceive the floating continent as part of the locales of his life.

"What's that mean?" Vaan's laughter seeps into his question. "Do you live here or not?"

"No," Larsa answers after a pause. Balthier clears his throat quietly.

Vaan does not catch anything. "So you have a house around here or something the like? One of those vacation houses."

Larsa nods with a smile, catching on, "Yes, a vacation house. You must admit, the view from Bhujerba is remarkable -- and the people are welcoming."

"The view _is_ nice," Vaan continues, grinning at the empty blue around them. "I'd like to live around here too, someday. When I horde up enough gil, I mean."

"And how do you go about earning Gil?" Larsa tilts his head slightly, glancing at Vaan's figure. "Do you offer labour?"

Vaan becomes uncomfortable again, "I help with things, here and there. There's this bangaa, Migelo -- runs his own sundries shop in Dalmasca. I work there, run some errands and such."

"Is it difficult?" Larsa pauses, uncertain, before finishing, "I understand that the past two years have been hard."

Vaan shrugs. "They were, but not _too_ hard," he replies, almost defensive. "Everyone does their share -- kids like you could do it too. There's one, Kytes, he's younger than you."

Larsa does not know how young Kytes is, but he is sure that he has been doing work since he was as young as Kytes as well. But that is not something to bring up right now; Vaan is proud of Kytes, he can tell. Vaan is proud of Dalmasca, and so is he. But there is a difference, he's sure, so he settles for agreement -- it is good that there is cooperation during hard times. He is relieved that Vaan and his friends are doing as well as they can.

Vaan grins, and goes back to pacing and looking out at the skies.

_**iii.**_

Penelo is smaller, but wiry just as Vaan is wiry, muscles coiled close around her arms and legs, tied together by a sturdy torso. She can get away as fast as Vaan gets away from things too he's sure, but Ghis' broad shoulders and hulking armour have scared her into a tight corner. She is tense, ready to run at the slightest chance, like Vaan looking for an opening between the skeletal guards of the Mine, looking to slice off a hanging arm or unsteady leg.

In the Mine, Basch covers for Vaan, charging in behind his shield and bringing his sword with a great clash against the rusted spears. Out here, Larsa interposes himself neatly between Ghis and Penelo, his straight back a shield and his words cutting off Ghis' righteous anger.

_**iv.**_

"So," Vaan starts as he slumps down beside Larsa at the village fire in Jahara.

"Yes?" Larsa replies, inclining his head without looking away.

"You're Vayne's brother," Vaan says, and sounds exactly like Penelo when she tells Larsa that Vayne scares her.

"I am," Larsa confirms. He has nothing to be ashamed of, and owes no one an apology.

Vaan nods, looking almost as if he'd expected Larsa to deny it. "You know," He leans back, relaxes. "I've been sleeping on that, since the Leviathan and everything."

"And your conclusion?" Larsa prompts quietly.

"Still don't really agree with it," Vaan grins ruefully at him. "But I've seen stranger things. So I guess I'm fine with you -- ah, Your Highness."

That does not sound fit at _all_, Larsa thinks, and nearly laughs. Peope like Gabranth and Drace and Basch and all the citizens of Archades have been calling him that, and it sounds _ridiculous_ coming out of Vaan's mouth, and he doesn't even know why.

"You may call me 'Larsa'," He says, containing his laughter in a smile.

"You sure that I won't get thrown in Nalbina for that?" Vaan asks with a raised eyebrow.

Larsa lets one puff of laughter escape, "As the court of Archades will tell you, 'the hand of Law stretches far, but only just'."

"Huh," Vaan smirks, and it is wilder than a scandal.

They spend the rest of the evening exchanging a smattering of anecdotes from their respective lives. The next day, as the party makes its way towards the Golmore Jungle, Penelo dashes half of Vaan's more extravagant storytelling to pieces, and shakes her head in steady disbelief at half of Larsa's own accounts.

_**v.**_

The Giant Wyrm spits, drenhing Larsa in an oil-like fluid. He has no idea what this is for, and is in the midst of wiping the vaguely disgusting substance from his eyes when suddenly, he realizes that Ashe is yelling at him. The next second, he gets tackled to the ground, and forces his eyes open to catch Vaan's grimace and the spot where he stood but a moment before, razed bare with fire.

"Don't just stand there!" Vaan shouts at him over the roar of the Wyrm and bits of Golmore falling around them, equal parts angry and terrified. "Here, take this," he felt, more than saw, Vaan stuffing a rough piece of cloth into his hands. "And don't let that -- thing see you before you're done." And before Larsa has a chance to ask what and why, he's already getting up, rushing to head off an approaching Treant with Penelo.

_**vi.**_

"Don't let Balthier get to you," Vaan tells him that night. "You go on believing in your father. Or your brother."

"Do you?" Larsa nearly snaps -- of course he believes. He has believed all his life, and even now he sees more than enough reason to believe. He sees the changes Archades can make, changes that can lead to so much more reasons that even Vaan and Penelo and Lady Ashe and Sir Basch would have to believe. As for Balthier and Fran -- well, they believed whatever they wanted.

"Well -- no," Vaan answers after a momentary struggle. "Sorry. I can't see it that way -- you know that, right? But you seem nice, and I believe you. I know you wouldn't say it unless you meant it."

"But you do not believe me. Not entirely."

"No -- I guess not."

"You are humouring me," Larsa stands up abruptly, face tightening.

"I'm not," Vaan replies, completely serious.

Larsa says nothing in return, though he walks away knowing that Vaan is right. But Archades, and all the changes that She can make, are not his.

Five days later, when they arrive at Mt. Bur-Omisace, they are not his father's either.

_**vii.**_

The night before Larsa leaves for Archades, Vaan stops him in the hallway leading to their quarters, and hands him a wrapped package. "Look," He says quietly, because night has fallen."I don't know what your brother is up to -- and I'm really sorry about your father. So -- between all that, I think you'll need these. Penelo and I always keep some on us. I don't know how useful they are, if they have more powerful stuff in Archades, but -- anyways. Just in case."

"Thank you," Larsa murmurs, taking the package. It clinks lightly within. "But you are all headed toward the Stillshrine."

Vaan rubs his nose once with a small grin, "Don't worry about us -- we've been travelling with enough for seven anyways. And we're tough -- we can take a few hits."

"I can also take such -- hits," Larsa says, the package in his hand still held up between them.

"I know that," Vaan replies, unfazed. "But you'll be by yourself, and Penelo's worried. And I'm worried too. So you watch out for yourself, alright?"

It is something, Larsa realizes, Vaan has said many, many times before. To Penelo, to Kytes, to all his friends who work at master Migelo's sundry shop. And perhaps master Migelo and Penelo have half-asked and half-ordered Vaan to watch out for himself many times more than all that put together, and each time is as true as the last. They are all 'tough', and Vaan is the toughest of them all (if the stories that he has told Larsa are to be believed), but Vaan is made first for getting way quick and getting away safe. And as Larsa is not the Emperor of Archadia, he is too.

"Thank you," He says again, and draws the package against himself. "I will."

Two days later, Bergan and his soldiers storm into Mt. Bur-Omisace. Larsa takes as much as he can carry without being noticed, gives the rest of the package to one of the unwounded Nu Mou, and goes quietly and quickly with Gabranth.

_**viii.**_

Rabanastre is small, so small in the desert, and there is not a place to which they can run from Bahamut's shadow. And inside the Sky Fortress, Larsa cannot ever hope to outrun the reach of his brother's blade. So he squares his shoulders, lifts his head, and straightens his back, and waits, heart skittering, for his chance to steal Archadia.

_**ix.**_

Some moments after Vaan leads the chase out of the control centre, Larsa hears a tremendous roar that he barely recognizes from the deck outside, accompanied by whooshing fires and explosions and mechanical gears sliding and jamming into place. He remembers suddenly, Vaan telling him one evening in the Paramina Rift about how they found Reks: wounded and traumatized and blabbering repeatedly about something no one could possibly believe in until the Marquis of Bhujerba made it the truth.

"I wasn't there, of course," Vaan comments lightly, and with a flat expression. "I was in Rabanastre then, and Penelo's parents were just gone."

Larsa can barely hear them over the din of the battle from where he's kneeling, clutching Gabranth's hand like a hard-won treasure and staring longingly out at the darkened doorway. There is a nightmare there, Larsa thinks, and I cannot steal my brother back from it.

_**x.**_

"You watch out for yourself, alright?" Vaan tells him again before he leaves for Archades. "I don't know what they've got waiting for you, but you're in good hands." He casts a grin at Basch before continuing, "And I'll drop by once in a while for a visit."

Larsa nods, "You will always be welcome."

Vaan snorts, and rubs his nose. "Well, I wouldn't know about that," He says cryptically, glancing at the skies before facing Larsa again, hands on his waist. "Did I ever tell you that I'm going to be a Sky Pirate?"

He hadn't; Larsa smiles back, a challenge. "Then my welcome still stands -- after all, Law can only reach so far. I trust you will know when to run."

* * *

_Again, comments, questions, and/or constructive criticism highly appreciated and always welcome. _


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